The Birthday Party
by cactusnell
Summary: It may be John's birthday, but Sherlock is looking for a present of his own. Sherlolly.
Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, sat in his chair in his own sitting room trying to process what was going on around around him. He didn't do well in social situations, but this was one he couldn't really avoid, as he was, nominally, at least, the host. The planning had actually been done by Mary Watson, the catering and decorating by Molly Hooper and Mrs. Hudson, while Greg Lestrade took care of the beverages. All he had to do was show up and smile, at least occasionally. It was his best friend's birthday, after all, and this was, apparently, the least he could do, although he had tried, unsuccessfully, to do even less.

So now he sat in his chair, holding a drink which we was not drinking, smiling a smile which wasn't real, and wondering when everyone would finally leave. He should have known that Molly would know exactly what was going on in his mind. She always seemed to see him. The petite pathologist approached his chair, plopped herself down on the arm, holding a drink which she was, most definitely, drinking, and said cheerily, "This isn't going to break up soon, you know, so you might as well try to enjoy yourself."

"It wasn't so bad until somebody started the music. What the bloody hell is 'uptown funk', anyway? Doesn't sound very pleasant. And what's so 'happy' about a room without a roof? Poor construction, if you ask me!"

"Stop grumbling, Sherlock. These people are your friends. And John's friends. Would you like to dance?"

"I'd love to dance, Molly. Let me know when a waltz comes on," he answered with a sneer.

They sat there in a companionable silence for a moment or two before Sherlock commented, rather seriously, "They look happy, don't they?" Molly followed his gaze over to where John and Mary were standing together, holding hands, while engaging a neighbor in conversation.

"Yes, well, that's most likely because they are happy, Sherlock. They love each other, they have a wonderful little daughter. Why shouldn't they be happy?" The man did not answer, merely swirling his glass so rigorously that the scotch it contained nearly spilled. "Why don't you finish that drink, Sherlock, and loosen up a bit?"

"Loosen up a bit? You do know me, don't you, Dr. Hooper? Just when have I ever appeared 'loose' to you? And as for the drink, I find it perfect just as it is - empty enough to convince people that I am actually imbibing, and full enough to discourage some good Samaritan from attempting to refill it."

"It's just that you're beginning to seem like a bit of a wet blanket, Sherlock. You don't look particularly happy. People are supposed to be happy at parties. They're supposed to mingle. Enjoy themselves. And you're the host, after all."

"Molly, you know me well enough, as does everyone else in this flat, to know that I do not enjoy random socializing. Small talk is not my specialty. And I am currently mingling with the only person I find of interest."

"Thank you for the compliment, I suppose, but you're beginning to depress me. You really don't look happy."

"I am not particularly _unhappy_ , Molly," he said, once again studying his best friend and his wife across the room. "If I had to characterize, or even admit to, any current sentiment, I would probably describe myself as 'jealous'."

Molly was a bit taken aback by the fact that the usually reserved detective, who rarely admitted to having feelings, let alone discussing them, had chosen her with whom to share such a thing. She felt she had to acknowledge this, and perhaps do something to comfort him. But his admission to jealousy over John and Mary's relationship sent a small shiver through her heart. She had long been head over heels for the brilliant detective with the unruly curls and the beautiful eyes, but had long since given up all hope of it ever being requited. Still, his admission had been the one and only time that he had ever acknowledged any sentiment harbored toward another human being. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had been correct in her assessment of his relationship with his flatmate all along, she thought. Or simply Sherlock's half of the equation. Despite the fact that her heart was aching at the thought that he evidently did care for someone, and that it wasn't her, she couldn't help but try to ease his discomfort.

"I know you miss him very much, Sherlock. But it has been quite some time since you, ah, lived together. John's moved on. He's happy with Mary, and little Claire. You should move on, too. You can't spend your whole life dwelling on a single relationship. You're young, you have a whole life ahead of you, you…"

"Oh, for god's sake, Molly, have you by any chance drunk Mrs. Hudson's koolaid? What relationship? John and I are friends! Hopefully, we always will be, unless I do something to screw it up…"

"Then you're not…"

"Sitting here pining over John Watson? No, I'm not! I would explain to you that I think of him as the brother I should have had, instead of the one fortune dealt me. As I said, he is a dear friend. He saved my life on more than one occasion, and he reintroduced me to a world outside myself and my mind palace. I am not jealous of Mary's relationship with John, which did, after all, result in a most delightful dividend in young Claire. I am jealous of them. Of what they have together. All the things that I firmly believed that I never wanted. Surprised?"

"Well, yes, I suppose I am."

"No more so than I am, I assure you." Sherlock looked at the drink in his hand, perhaps even contemplating taking a sip. After a moment or two of silence, Molly made an attempt to rise from the arm of the chair, but Sherlock's hand on her leg stopped her. "Stay, Molly. We haven't really finished here, you know."

"Sherlock, you could have had all that. You've had chances." Molly wanted to imagine herself as his inamorata, but instead her mind fell back to the image of the woman on the slab, or even his erstwhile fiance, Janine. "There was Janine…"

"I told you, rather emphatically and on multiple occasions, that that was **for a case**!" His voice was loud enough that several people nearby turned in his direction. Molly had jumped a bit at the vehemence in his words. "It was merely a charade, nothing more. A few kisses, and nothing else, I promise you."

"You really don't owe me any explanation, Sherlock. Whatever happened was between you and Janine."

"Nothing happened, Molly!"

"Well," Molly began with a taunting smile, thinking back to a salacious article in a London tabloid, "According to Janine, it happened seven times in a single night in this very flat!"

"Really, Dr. Hooper, had there been any truth to that rumor, I assure you Mrs. Hudson would have surely been awakened from her herbal soother induced sleep. And she would be less certain of her convictions about John and I!"

"Relax, Romeo. I doubt anyone really believed it, anyway. Seven times! You're no longer a teenager, after all."

"You're right, of course. That figure was never a problem in my younger years, but I may be out of practice. "

Molly was become increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. "Maybe we should change the subject, Sherlock. What were we talking about?"

"Your concern about my happiness. Allow me to return the favor. Molly, are you happy?"

The woman was a bit nonplussed by the question, and wasn't quite sure how to answer. "In what regard, Sherlock?"

"In general, Molly. Are you happy?"

"Well, to repeat your answer, I'm not particularly unhappy. I love my job, I love London, I love my friends, I love my cat…"

"But, still, you can't say, without hesitation, that you're happy?"

"Maybe not completely happy. I guess I would say that I am more 'content'. There are things that I want in life, things that I haven't achieved yet. I mean, I think I'm respected and appreciated at Bart's, I'm financially secure, I have a decent flat. But that's not everything, is it?"

"You want a family, a home, and a companion with whom to share these things. Strictly speaking, I assume the companion in question would be expected to provide the family. You probably have it all spelled out in your mind, down to the number of children, and their names. You should have those things, Molly. You deserve them. No one deserves them more than you, and no one would be better at it than you. Cutting up cadavers by day, and changing nappies at night." He smiled at the woman as she gave a nervous laugh. "Am I wrong?"

"No, as usual, you're dead on. I want at least three kids, and one will be named Martin, after my father. Martina if I have only girls. He or she will have ginger hair and blue eyes, just like my dad."

"I'm interested to see how you work out those genetic traits, given the color of your hair and eyes, Dr. Hooper."

"Genetic research is advancing by leaps and bounds, Sherlock. I have a well equipped lab, and I'm not afraid to use it! If all else fails, there's always contact lenses and hair dye!" Molly said with a laugh and a twinkle in her eye.

"I admire your determination, Molly. But there may be an easier alternative. You say your father had blue eyes, so there must be blue eyed genes somewhere in your family tree. They're positively rampant in mine. Quite a few gingers, too, although we don't like to talk about them. Perhaps we could work something out?"

Molly Hooper, still perched on the arm of his chair, began to feel the heat rising up her neck. She couldn't manage to say a single word. Perhaps she misunderstood his meaning. She realized this was not the case when he moved his arm around her waist, and pulled her gently down onto his lap. "As you pointed out a moment ago, Molly. I am no longer a teenager, and, although I hate to seem ungallant, you're not getting any younger, either. Perhaps we should start on our project post haste." Then he kissed her. Not a messy, hungry kiss like you see in films, but one which was long and steady, filled with passion and promise in equal parts. From across the room, Mary Watson tipped her glass and smiled.

When he finally moved his lips away from hers, he whispered, "I'm feeling considerably happier than I was earlier this evening. I'd like the chance to make you feel that way, too, Molly, if you'll let me."

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I'm not very good at expressing sentiment, as you undoubtedly know already. I'd rather let my actions speak for me. But, knowing myself so well, almost as well as you know me, I'm sure that I'll break your heart on occasion. But I do love you, more than anything, and I promise that when and if I do break your heart, I'll always be there to mend it." He then leaned in to kiss her once again, gently this time. It was then that they noticed that the room had gone strangely silent. When they glanced around, they were met by the unabashed stares of the birthday guests.

"Get a room!" Greg Lestrade said in a mockingly stern tone.

"I have a room, but it's currently piled high with all your hats, coats, and scarves. And possibly a drunken Anderson. And an infant in a portable cot!" Molly elbowed her newly minted boyfriend/paramour/companion in his ribs. "But, please stay as long as you like, and enjoy John's birthday party. Molly and I have all the time in the world. The rest of our lives, in fact." And with that, the man who had always derided public displays of affection, proceeded to become very affectionate, and very publicly.


End file.
